Rhetoric and Communications, Issue 13, July 2014 Nostalgia as political emotion and the discursive production of passive collective subjectivity: a critical rhetorical analysis of the Bulgarian Museum of Socialist Art Mina Ivanova Abstract: In 2011, Bulgaria became the latest country from the former Soviet bloc to create a Museum of Socialist Art. The Museum offers an opportunity to analyze the function of post-communist nostalgia in the production of passive collective subjectivities from a psychoanalytically informed rhetorical perspective. In particular, the Museum’s rhetoric suggests a productive dialectical contradiction through which nostalgia can operate to both stir desire for the past (communism) and to silence critical engagement with that past, all the while justifying the present social and political order (neo-liberal capitalism). To explain the constitution of an ambivalent discursive-affective relation between “the people” and a certain interpretation of the past, I draw on Slavoj Žižek’s understanding of melancholy as originating not from the loss of the object but from the withdrawal of the object cause of desire. The Museum’s rhetoric--as well as the broader official discourse within which it is embedded- -suggests that enjoyment of the communist symbols is simultaneously enabled (through their physical presence) and prohibited (“we should remember the past, so as not to repeat it”). The potential discursive effects of this prohibition are also similar to the mechanism described in a diverse body of empirical research on celebrity death and nostalgia. Keywords: nostalgia, rhetoric, psychoanalysis, collective subjectivity, socialist museums, Bulgaria. “Communism and socialism are going where they belong – in history,” declared Bulgaria’s then-Deputy Prime Minister and Minister of Finance, Simeon Diankov, at the opening of the Museum of Socialist Art (MSA) in Sofia, on September 19, 2011 [1]. After the collapse of communism in 1989, the artifacts were taken down from public spaces and stored in cellars and warehouses. Now the monuments stand quietly in the new 7,500- square-metre (80,729-square-foot) outdoor exhibit space. A branch of the Bulgarian National Art Gallery, the MSA is located outside Sofia’s downtown, near the offices of the National Police and the National Investigative Services. The exhibit includes a 550-square- meter indoor space housing 60 paintings and 25 statues, and an outdoor garden where 77 giant sculptures depicting communist Leaders, symbols and themes, are lined up along newly paved paths. Visitors can also view 45 minutes of communist-era newsreels, which also include footage from the demolition of the Mausoleum in Sofia that until 1990 held the embalmed body of communist leader Georgi Dimitrov. The white marble building was detonated in 1999, after a raging nationwide debate. The government invested 1.5 million euro ($2.1 million) in the MSA, which it initially projected it would recover within two years through ticket sales (tickets cost three Euros). Another potential source of revenue is the small souvenir shop at the museum which sells “Lenin and Dimitrov postcards along with mugs and T-shirts with the museum’s logo.” [2]. The establishment of such a venue more than two decades after the collapse of the communist regime —an effort, in part, to catch up with other countries from the former Soviet bloc—stirred controversy and debate in political, artistic, and academic circles. Some commentators welcomed the MSA as an opportunity to engage with the past in a dispassionate, non-judgmental, and non-ironic way [3]. Others argued that an opportunity for critical assessment of history had been squandered; that a much needed contestation over history had been sidetracked by nostalgic sentiment “for the repressive dictatorship, driven by its successors” and that the museum represented yet another attempt at historic revisionism by a “political elite with roots in the communist past.” [4]. Vezhdi Rashidov, Bulgarian Minister of Culture and eminent sculptor, who was the leading proponent and organizer of the museum, argued that the works on display possessed artistic value beyond any political or ideological content and represented some of the most renowned national artists of the 20th century [5]. However, in a scathing critique, Svetlana Kuiumdzhieva from the Institute of Art Studies of the Bulgarian Academy of Sciences questioned not only the thematic and chronological logic behind the MSA collections, but also the very function of the museum as such. “A museum of what?,” she asked, arguing the new institution in fact represented the old ideology in action [6]. A number of scholars have traced these debates in detail, noting that the MSA is both productive and reflective of nostalgia and critiquing the ways in which it may be shaping collective memory of the communist period [7]. However, even though the MSA is a contested public space, a polyvalent text that partakes in the construction, selection, deflection, or erasure of the past in ways that serve present-day political purposes, it has received little attention from the perspective of rhetorical and public memory studies. Additionally, its affective, nostalgic, dimension has been assumed but has not been systematically analyzed. Memory places (such as monuments, memorials, and museums) “are especially powerful rhetorically” and they present an opportunity to analyze the imbrication of rhetoric, memory, and place [8]. Rhetoric is a “fundamentally public activity,” materially and politically consequential for the constitution, (re)articulation, and negotiation of collective identity; and so is public memory, which is rhetorical, affective, and frequently attached to physical places [9]. The purpose of this study, then, is to engage with the MSA as precisely an intersection of rhetoric, memory, and place with a focus on its nostalgic dimension in an attempt to understand its rhetorical complexity and its paradoxes. That the MSA would stir nostalgia in some of its visitors is not surprising. According to its curator, Bisera Yosifova, while children and youth know little about the communist period and about the historical figures and symbols on display at the museum, the elderly “come . driven by nostalgia, because that was part of their lives; they sit, and they look, and they cry.” [10]. Clearly, a segment of the general Bulgarian population remains sympathetic to the communist regime: the same month that the MSA opened, “hundreds of Bulgarians celebrated the 100th anniversary of the birth of the country’s long-serving dictator, Zhivkov.” [11]. However, while the MSA may have invoked in some a longing for the life they had during communism, it has also been remarkably unsuccessful in generating interest from the general public. During my visit in the summer of 2012, what struck me the most about the Museum— apart from the fact that monuments I remembered from my childhood as truly imposing now seemed nondescript and diminished in stature—was the conspicuous absence of contextual information about the artifacts and the equally notable absence of visitors. Although the place had been open for almost a year, the guest book contained only a couple of pages of sentimental notes and expressions of deep gratitude for preserving the artistic treasures of what some of the commentators described as an important period of the national history. The guard on duty told me that no one really cares about the Museum, and no one, except for the occasional tourist, ever goes there. More recently, the Trud reported that nearly 20 months after its opening, the MSA had only attracted 10,000 visitors, including tourists and students [12]. Perhaps these numbers reflect the public’s apathetic attitude towards the totalitarian past. In Bulgaria, there has been a general lack of interest critical assessment of the period between 1944 and 1989, or in reckoning (whether legal, in the courts, or symbolic, in the museums) with the personages who actively engaged in what in a different context might be termed crimes against humanity [13]. It seems, then, that the MSA’s nostalgic appeal or its effects are less than straightforward and that they connect to the simultaneous loss of interest/desire for the past and the resurgence of nostalgia for it that seem to define the broader social context. The MSA’s own rhetoric displays a paradoxical layering of nostalgia and amnesia, offering rhetoricians a unique opportunity to analyze the production of public memory and forgetting. As I shall argue, the Museum’s rhetoric suggests a productive dialectical contradiction through which nostalgia can operate to both stir desire for the past (communism) and to silence critical engagement with that past, all the while justifying the present social and political order (capitalism). To explain how the museum partakes in the rhetorical production of public memory and national identity, I analyze the ambivalent discursive- affective relation between “the people” and their “past” in terms of the psychoanalytic understanding of melancholy developed in Slavoj Žižek’s work. Melancholy, on this account, originates not from the loss of the object but from the withdrawal of the object cause of desire. Lost desire can sometimes be revived, if a symbolic prohibition— a public law or generally accepted social practice—is introduced: if something that is experienced as lost is in addition also prohibited, then it could become desirable again [14]. The pattern, then, is: lost desire, prohibition,